Best of Myles

by Flann O'Brien

  ‘That solicitor should be struck off the Rolls,’ Keats said.

  ONE EVENING Keats, working quietly at his books, was devastated by an inundation of Chapman. The poet’s friend was distended with passion, inarticulate, a man driven mad by jealousy. When given a drink and pacified, he related the events which led to his condition. To a lady of the most ravishing beauty he had lost his heart; his sentiment was warmly reciprocated, and an early marriage was all that remained to perfect his bliss. Quite suddenly, however, a lout of an artist who specialised in ladies’ portraits arrived upon the scene, begged to be permitted to paint the lady, and was granted this boon by the unthinking lover. His chagrin and rage may be guessed when it is revealed that the rascally artist forthwith laid siege to the lady’s heart—with not inconsiderable results. After a time she ceased to be in when Chapman called with flowers; on two occasions she had been seen boating with this artist.

  ‘I am beside myself,’ Chapman cried, beating his head, ‘and so far as I can see only two courses are open to me. I must either take my razor and slit that wretched fellow’s throat from ear to ear—that or terminate completely my association with this woman, break off utterly and irrevocably my association with her!’

  Keats considered the problem in silence for a considerable time. Finally he spoke:

  ‘If I were you,’ he said, ‘I’d cut the painter.’

  ONE WINTER’S evening Keats looked up to find Chapman regarding him closely. He naturally inquired the reason for this scrutiny.

  ‘I was thinking about those warts on your face,’ Chapman said.

  ‘What about them?’ the poet said testily.

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ Chapman said. ‘It just occurred to me that you might like to have them removed …’

  ‘They are there for years,’ Keats said, ‘and I don’t see any particular reason for getting worried about them now.’

  ‘But they are rather a blemish,’ Chapman persisted. ‘I wouldn’t mind one—but four fairly close together, that’s rather—’

  ‘Four?’ Keats cried. ‘There were only three there this morning!’

  ‘There are four there now,’ Chapman said.

  ‘That’s a new one on me,’ Keats said.

  KEATS AND CHAPMAN were invited to view the wonders of a steel rolling mill and gratefully accepted the invitation. They watched with awe the giant hammers and rollers moulding crude steel into hawsers, plates and bars. The poet was so fascinated by this that he did not notice that a travelling overhead head had caught Chapman by the coat and yanked him away through a sinister aperture in the brickwork; nor did he perceive, either, the subsequent crash and sound of muffled screams. He was thus astounded to be shown Chapman later seated in the firm’s first aid station, a bloody spectacle whose anatomical attitude suggested broken bones.

  ‘What on earth happened you?’ Keats demanded.

  The injured man made some attempt to reply but his jaws were smashed and his words could not be heard. His effort to speak, however, was a serious strain and he instantly fainted.

  ‘He looks as if he has been through the mill,’ Keats remarked to a frightened bystander.

  KEATS AND CHAPMAN, in funds for once, decided to take a two-day trip to Ostend, having in mind the not uncharacteristic belief that there was, for a modest initial stake, a fortune to be made on the tables. The steamer was new and large, the channel like glass. A few hours out, Keats suggested a few bowls of nourishing bouillon, and to his surprise noticed that Chapman’s face, which was deadly pale, became green. He collapsed on a seat and covered his face with his hands. Keats, having reflected on the oddity of Chapman’s condition against the background of happy holidaymakers, all in the most jovial spirits, repaired to the bar and consumed some cognacs. Returning later in search of his friend, he found him now putty-coloured, moaning dreadfully and staring at his lifeless hands. His condition was not enhanced by the titters of passers-by, chiefly women who should in justice be far sicker than he.

  ‘You will be all right when we land,’ Keats said helpfully. ‘It is only four hours.’

  ‘I don’t mind sea-sickness so much,’ Chapman wailed, ‘—it’s the ignominy of being the one person on board who is sick. If everybody was the same, the thing would be at least bearable …’

  Keats studied his friend with compassion.

  ‘O si sic omnes,’ he murmured.

  CHAPMAN, ever in search of new enthusiasms, joined a body known as the Society for the Defence of Civil Liberties. The Society financed the grandiose legal battles which individuals undertook in order to secure some primitive right, such as the right to put cats out at night, to place dust-bins on public streets, play musical instruments in congested residential districts, and so forth. An important permanent activity of the Society was the review of the propriety, legality and fairness of taxation, both in substance and in incidence. Its Council found that there was ample ground for assailing all taxes and did so with great ferocity. The President of the Society, in particular, impressed Chapman. He was unremitting in his denunciation of taxation and had single-handed addressed tens of thousands of letters and telegrams of protest to Government Departments. After a rise in Income Tax rates had been announced one year, he solemnly declared that the new taxes would utterly beggar people of his own class, even to the extent of depriving them of essentials such as food and clothing. He bitterly challenged his own assessment and appealed to the Special Commissioners. Time after time he obtained postponements of the hearing on the ground that he had no clothes in which he could appear to make his case. The Commissioners began to lose patience and announced a final date beyond which they would agree to no further postponement. The President of the Society on this occasion duly appeared—but attired in a paper suit which he had contrived by taking the offending Finance Act apart and sewing the pages together in the semblance of a jacket and trousers. The appeal was disallowed but the President’s ingenious gesture delighted Chapman, who gave a very long and enthusiastic account of the incident to Keats. The President was, Chapman said, the greatest champion of liberty since Napoleon.

  ‘That fellow’s always putting on an Act,’ Keats said, drily.

  KEATS AND CHAPMAN once went into a very expensive restaurant and ordered roes of tunny or some such delicacy. The manager explained apologetically that this dish had just gone out of season. Keats, however, insisted and the manager promised ‘to see what he could do’. We do not know whether he called in the aid of some other restaurant, but the desired dishes were eventually produced. The two diners gorged themselves delightedly. Then Keats began to hum a tune.

  ‘What’s that you’re humming,’ Chapman asked.

  ‘The last roes of summer,’ Keats said pleasantly.

  The Myles na gCopaleen Catechism of Cliche

  IT IS about time certain things were said and if they won’t be said in the leader columns they will be said here. We have had about enough of this thing that the Germans call unmaessigkreisenheit. A certain thing happened the other day but not a word about it in the papers. I have now made up my mind to shoot my mouth off, whatever the consequences may be. Listen to this, for example—

  The Editor: You will keep the fun clean like the rest of us.

  Myself: O is that so, who said I will, you and who else?

  The Editor: Your man will be down on us if we are not careful.

  Myself: But surely we are prepared to suffer for our principles?

  The Editor: Yes, yes, yes. Come out and have a cup of tea, I want to talk to you about Sibelius.

  Myself (muttering): O all right but don’t think I’ve forgotten about this, I will be back to it another time. ‘Gone with the Wind’ picture banned, all my books banned, now this, I will not stand for it do you hear me.

  Mr Patrick Kavanagh was recently reported as having declared that ‘there is no such thing as Gaelic literature’. This is hard luck on the Institute of Advanced Studies, who are supposed to be looking into the thing. I attended the Book Fair i
n the Mansion House the other evening in the hope of overhearing other similar pronouncements from the writing persons who infest such a place. I heard plenty, and have recorded it in my note-books under ‘Stuff To Be Used If Certain People Put Their Heads Out.’

  The Fair was fine. Bright, rearing stands; melodious loud speakers, women beautiful, long and smooth as the strand at Tramore, dazzling big print, colour standing on colour in every pattern, bright bland books of fine worth, exquisite arrangements of everything that is nice. Yet it was not that Nature had cast o’er the scene, Her purest of crystal and brightest of green, It was not sweet magic of streamlet or hill, O no, it was something more exquisite still oh ho no, it was something more exqueeseet steel. ’Twas that Friends of the Academy of Letters were near, Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear, And one felt how the best charms of Nature improve, When we see them reflected in books that we love.

  The Myles na gCopaleen Catechism of Cliché. In 356 tri-weekly parts. A unique compendium of all that is nauseating in contemporary writing. Compiled without regard to expense or the feelings of the public. A harrowing survey of sub-literature and all that is pseudo, mal-dicted and calloused in the underworld of print. Given free with the Irish Times. Must not be sold separately or exported without a licence. Copyright, Printed on re-pulped sutmonger’s aprons. Irish labour, Irish ink. Part one. Section one. Let her out, Mike! Lights! O.K., Sullivan, let her ride!

  Is man ever hurt in a motor smash?

  No. He sustains an injury.

  Does such a man ever die from his injuries?

  No. He succumbs to them.

  Correct. But supposing an ambulance is sent for. He is put into the ambulance and rushed to hospital. Is he dead when he gets there, assuming he is not alive?

  No, he is not dead. Life is found to be extinct.

  Correct again. A final question. Did he go into the hospital, or enter it, or be brought to it?

  He did not. He was admitted to it.

  Good. That will do for today.

  MORE OF IT

  The Myles na gCopaleen Catechism of Cliché, part two. Copyright of course. What’s more, all rights reserved. Reproduction in whole or part, etc., etc.

  Is treatment, particularly bad treatment, ever given to a person?

  No. It is always meted out.

  Is anything else ever meted out?

  No. The only thing that is ever meted out is treatment.

  And what does the meting out of treatment evoke?

  The strongest protest against the treatment meted out.

  Correct. Mention another particularly revolting locution.

  ‘The matter will fall to be dealt with by so-and-so.’

  Good. Are you sufficiently astute to invent a sentence where this absurd jargon will be admissible?

  Yes. ‘The incendiary bombs will fall to be dealt with by fire fighting squads.’

  Very good indeed. Is that enough for wan day?

  It is, be the japers.

  THEY’LL SAY IT ABOUT YOU

  The Myles na gCopaleen Catechism of Cliché. An invaluable compendium of all that is etc., etc. Part three.

  Of what was any deceased citizen you like to mention typical?

  Of all that is best in Irish life.

  Correct. With what qualities did he endear himself to all who knew him?

  His charm of manner and unfailing kindness.

  Yes. But with what particularly did he impress all those he came in contact with?

  His sterling qualities of mind, loftiness of intellect and unswerving devotion to the national cause.

  What article of his was always at the disposal of the national language?

  His purse.

  And what more abstract assistance was readily offered to those who sougnt it?

  The fruit of his wide reading and profound erudition.

  At what time did he speak Irish?

  At a time when it was neither profitable nor popular.

  With what cause did he never disguise the fact that his sympathies lay?

  The cause of national independence.

  And at what time?

  At a time when lesser men were content with the rôle of time-server and sycophant.

  What was he in his declining years?

  Though frail of health, indefatigable in his exertions on behalf of his less fortunate fellow men.

  Whom did he marry in 1879?

  A Leitrim Lady.

  And at what literary labour was he engaged at the time of his death?

  His monumental work on the Oghams of Tipperary.

  And of what nature is his loss?

  Well-nigh irreparable.

  MORE OF IT

  The Myles na gCopaleen Catechism of Cliché. Part Four and no wonder. Hold your nose, boys.

  What is Mr Blank made after 109 years’ of faithful service with the firm?

  The recipient of a clock and handsome set of carvers.

  By whom?

  His friends and colleagues.

  And as what?

  A small token of their esteem.

  What, according to the person making the presentation, does Mr Blank carry with him and where?

  The best wishes of the firm and staff; into his well-earned retirement.

  In what are these wishes expressed by the person making the presentation?

  In the course of a witty and felicitous speech.

  How does Mr Blank reply?

  Suitably.

  What does he declare himself to have received and from whom?

  Nothing but kindness from all those he was privileged to come in contact with.

  What did the proceedings then do?

  Terminate.

  ANOTHER LUMP

  The Myles na gCopaleen Catechism of Cliché. Part Five Dedicated to the Bar Library in affectionate recognition of the fact that it contains all that is best in Irish life.

  What physical qualities have all barristers in common?

  Keenness of face and hawkiness of eye.

  Their arguments are—

  Trenchant.

  Their books?

  Dusty tomes; but occasionally musty old legal tomes.

  In what do they indulge?

  Flights of oratory.

  If they are women, what is their description?

  They are Fair Portias.

  In their obituary notices, on which circuit is it invariably said they first went?

  The western.

  Where they—?

  Quickly built up a lucrative practice.

  What did they never make?

  An enemy.

  And never lose?

  A friend.

  Their wit was—?

  Dry. They sometimes indulged in sallies of it.

  What phenomenon in brackets did such sallies evoke?

  (Laughter.)

  Quote a suitable obituary extract.

  Never too robust, his health of late years had given anxiety to his friends, but physical frailty did not abate one jot his great qualities of courage or deter him from breaking a lance with the bench in the service of his client. He was a fearless advocate.

  Good. To what was he an ornament?

  The profession he adorned.

  What prize did he win in the late eighties?

  The President’s Gold Medal for Oratory.

  In what had he shone?

  In many famous cases before the Master of the Rolls.

  And in what manner did he address the Judge?

  As M’Lud.

  CATECHISM OF CLICHÉ

  Of what nature is the newspaper in which one craves the courtesy of its space?

  Invaluable and widely read.

  For what purpose does one crave the courtesy of its space?

  Saying a few words anent the gas supply.

  In criticising the Gas Company, what does one wish to make it clear one holds for the Electricity Supply Board?

  No brief.

  Of what nature is the attitude
of the Gas Company to say the least of it?

  High-handed and dictatorial in the extreme.

  In what hands should such service not be and why?

  Private; because it is a public utility service.

  What would the situation be were it not so tragic?

  Humorous.

  Why is it necessary for the Government to take immediate steps to safeguard children from the injuries to health that may be caused by gas rationing?

  Because the children are the men and women of tomorrow.

  And what does one hope one’s letter will catch?

  The eye of the powers that be.

  FOR YOUR CLICHÉ ALBUM

  In what can no man tell the future has for us?

  Store.

  With what do certain belligerents make their military dispositions?

  Typical Teutonic thoroughness.

  In what manner do wishful thinkers imagine that the war will be over this year?

  Fondly.

  Take the word, ‘relegate’. To what must a person be relegated?

  That obscurity from which he should never have been permitted to emerge.

  What may one do with a guess, provided one is permitted?

  Hazard.

  And what is comment?

  Superfluous.

  CÚINNE NA gCLICHÉ

  Cad fé isé ár nguidhe go mbeidh Nodlaig agat?

  Shéan.

  Agus aithbhliain?

  Fé mhaise.

  Cé nach mbíonn gan locht?

  Saoi.

  Agus cad nach go cur le chéile?

  Neart.

  IN MY recent pronouncements on clichés I must apologise for having overlooked until this late day that awful swine, the Clerk of the Weather. All stand and uncover, please. ‘Thanks to the benevolence of the Clerk of the Weather, large crowds availed themselves of the opportunity to spend the day by the seaside. From an early hour there was an exodus by ’bus, tram and rail …’ Yes. And please do not forget his butty, King Sol, the monarch who is always ‘genial’ and ‘beams on the occasion’. What’s the matter? Why are you biting your nails? Can you not take it?